


Significance Between the Lines

by exmachinarium



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmachinarium/pseuds/exmachinarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the disappearance of Jonathan Strange and Gilbert Norrell, Childermass takes the matters of English magic in his own hands - with Vinculus as his not quite voluntary companion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Significance Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my girlfriend's birthday, that's basically all you need to know. Also, kudos to anyone who can guess where the title comes from - I commend your good taste in music.

They sit opposite one another, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the pub and far more light than two cheap candles should allow them. Childermass bends low over his map and notebook (a cheap affair, nothing compared to the one he left behind in Hurtfew); Vinculus sips on his fifth pint, eyes clouded yet still eager to seize in all of the voluptuousness of the barmaids and what some charitably call _female entrepreneurs_ circling the place in search of a patron. Neither pays much attention to the other - or so it seems until Vinculus looks up and squints at his companion.

"I gather you are now a fellow homeless?" A lazy grin stretches out his gaunt features.

" _'My home shall be the sky and the river, with a pillow of rock and moss to cradle me'_ " Childermass quotes from the top of his head the verse of a poem on the Raven King he had heard once in the far North. His answer is met by a bark of laughter.

"Awfully cheeky of you, this... Though it's nice to hear it after all this time," Vinculus' smile turns fond and absent as he remembers the lines that precede and follow. But soon enough his eyes stray again to far more palpable figures and, stretching with much exaggeration, he expresses his wish to head for a much-deserved rest.

"Not yet" is the only answer he gets; his face falls again and he swears into his pint as the barmaid passes by, completely unaware of the chance that she was deprived of due to Childermass' diligence.

***

After the demise of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, as it is often referred to, magical societies begin to spring from nowhere all over England: Dover, Bristol, Manchester, London. And all across the country Childermass and Vinculus travel, much to the latter's displeasure. In some towns they are met with cheer and veneration, some welcome them with poorly hidden hostility; yet everywhere the magicians express interest in the Raven King's book, Strangeites and Norrellites alike. They visit all who wish to have them, though Childermass remains adamant in his refusal to pledge allegiance to either of the sides (when this choice is made for him, he neither agrees nor proves the speakers wrong).

Not trusting Vinculus to rein in his womanizing ways, Childermass visits the female societies alone. This earns him many a scoff and an insult or two. He makes promises to amend this appalling state of inequality as soon as he is only able. By Bird and Book, he swears. By Bird and Book.

***

"I have never in my life been in Dover before, but I certainly do not wish to return here for as long as said life might last," Vinculus wail is carried off by the wind as he wraps his shivering frame in a coat Childermass provided him with at the start of this ridiculous journey (not too expensive, but, according to the man, fine enough for its price).

"They say these cliffs are almost as haunted as the streets of York," the man of business himself seems completely impervious to cold and slight drizzle. It's not all magic, this astonishing resistance; some was brought on by sheer necessity, some by the good spirits Childermass seems to be constantly in possession of these days.

"Haunted indeed!" scoffs Vinculus. "In fact I might soon feel inclined to join this particular procession of spirits... One of which presently prophesises to me that, should we turn back and head to the lair of the ram, much fortitude, wine and pleasurable company shall await us...!"

"You wouldn't last a day out at sea," Childermass laughs as he bids his goodbyes to the corpse-white cliffs and the howling winds roughening the sea beneath.

"Which is why I never intend to set my foot anywhere beyond England. And now, come on!" the conjurer's teeth begin to chatter. He turns on his heel, the coat swishing dramatically, and stomps away towards the nearest inn. Childermass follows without much haste.

"For this torment, mister magician, you owe me a separate room and a wench to warm these frost-bitten bones," Vinculus continues disgruntledly once they are side by side.

"Alas, mister conjurer, we have not a penny to spare for either."

"Oh, why did fortune place me in the clutches of the most miserly of all the English magicians!" Vinculus raises his hands to high heavens as if begging whoever listens to hail a tempest to avenge this calamity. "Be warned that one day I might become desperate enough to simply bed you instead!"

Childermass shrugs at the threat and overtakes Vinculus with ease. He wonders if, after the buzz of activity concerning the Raven King's book has quieted down, he should seek out Hannah and make a proposition to which, knowing the history between the two of them, she'd readily consent to. Theirs would be a union born not of searing passion, but understanding and practicality; where partners exercise their wits through quips and small talk in the morning, spend perfectly mundane (though occasionally cheerful) days in each other's company and wish each other good night before entering their respectable bed chambers. He decides to leave the thought hanging for the time being.

"I can, however, promise you enough liquor to drown your sadness and dull the pain of sharing quarters with such an undesirable partner as myself."

Vinculus perks up almost instantly. The lesser of two evils, really, the man of business thinks. Inebriated Vinculus is a pliant enough figure, and while the following morning will find him cranky and easily irritated, the pounding headache will keep the conjurer in check for the duration of incoming meetings.

***

They remain in London for the length of over two weeks, as each of the numerous associations of magicians and mago-historians must be visited separately, nearly all being at odds with at least two other in their nearest vicinity.

Lord Henry Pole acknowledges their arrival in a short formal missive that does not become a prelude to any further interaction. As if to contradict this official staleness of interest, Arabella Strange - who, to the general outrage of London's social circles, continuously refrains from donning black - not only receives them in an amiable manner at a refreshingly private dinner, but is also kind enough to answer some questions with regards to her rescue from Faerie. Lady Pole, companion to Mrs Strange both in previous captivity and newly gained freedom, attends the dinner, but excuses herself due to business matters before the table is cleared and, apart from a brief welcome and a briefer expression of gratitude to Childermass, speaks none at all.

Vinculus manages to sneak out in the middle of the night to pay a visit to Stephen Black as well, but on the following morning he refuses to disclose any particulars of said encounter.

***

"I trust you have a full list of magical associations in England?" says Childermass, handing Mr Segundus a thin booklet, evenly marked with symbols written in black pen.

"I am doing my best to keep up with their emergence, yes." Segundus admits with a nod. He looks much more vital and tangible than before, even though his hair has turned almost uniformly grey. He seems happier, too; the same quality he assigns to Childermass the moment they met at York's famous tearoom.

"A much appreciated diligence, I assure you." He responds to Segundus' flushed smile with a brief quirk of his own lips, then goes on to explain: "This is the most comprehensive account of the Raven King's book, as present on the body of the street conjurer Vinculus. I would require you to copy it and send out to each and every group present on your list, starting with associations comprised of female researchers of the subject."

At first Segundus seems about to question the last line of Childermass' reasoning, but then he seems to recall in full the actual subject of their discussion (most certainly still dozing somewhere after a night of drinking or seeking other bodily pleasures), which is enough to clear all his doubts on that matter.

"Are there no signs of their return?" he asks instead ('their' is a mere courtesy, Childermass realises; for although a man of a peaceful and amicable countenance, Segundus could not care less for the fate of Mr Norrell had it not been bound with that of his dear friend and mentor).

Childermass shakes his head minutely and looks outside at the cloudy sky, visible over the edge of the roof opposite. It has not spoken to him ever since. Even the cards refuse to give him clear answers (as clear, that is, as cards are capable of giving).

"I attempted finding them by means of the silver bowl many a time... Twice, I believe, I have indeed caught a glimpse of them in our world, but they seemed to be only passing between the roads."

"That may be so," Childermass murmurs absent-mindedly.

"As I understand you do not plan to continue your journey across the country… Do you intend to settle down here, Mr Childermass?"

"Unless Vinculus makes new enemies, which is more than likely, I would not mind remaining here at least until next spring."

Segundus smiles again and opens the booklet to study its contents in the languid light of the parlour.

"You say this is a full account of the book?"

"As full as it could possibly be," Childermass answers, recalling the process of creating the manuscript, the copy of which resides presently in Segundus' lap; particularly the moment of his final victory over Vinculus, struggling and cursing as the man of business sat astride him to note down the signs at the back of his ankles.

"What if they change? You have previously mentioned they changed from the original prophecy shortly after your discovery of the... The book."

"I shall keep you informed, Mr Segundus. Be easy." Childermass smirks and takes another sip of his tea. The bitter taste tingles at his tongue, not unpleasantly.

***

Two hundred and ninety-three.

For most of the time, Childermass does not count the days from his sudden and somewhat crude dismissal, unless for purely practical reasons. He has enough of his own assets to last for long without needing to seek out employment. True to his own words, he doesn't plan to offer his services to any new master.

In the absence of Hurtfew, he rents moderately comfortable lodgings in the older part of the town, capable of providing enough space for himself and Vinculus to have at least a modicum of privacy should the circumstances call for it. The conjurer refuses the deal vehemently at first, but months of well-sheltered sleep and regular meals have taken their toll on his ability to resist the offer. So, after what Vinculus himself likes to believe was a long litany of pleading and begging, he stays.

Cleaning his shaving razor one unusually sunny winter morning, Childermass looks at his reflection in the mirror and realizes the scar, which should be there in plain view, is missing. He traces a finger down the curiously absent line, wondering vaguely what happened to Lascelles and if he could seek the man out by the silver bowl (he has some idea as to what could have possibly happened and it never fails to bring a vindictive smile to his face).

He doesn't think of Norrell any less or more than any other Englishman aware of the man's existence. He certainly does not miss him.

(Vinculus, meanwhile, can hardly contain his laughter and a none-too-charitable jab upon finding Childermass amusing himself with animating the fish decorating one of their best teacups.)

***

"Now that's plain assault!" Vinculus yowls like an enraged cat as he's hauled, still in a state of partial undress, back to the room. "I am not a blushing maid and you, John Childermass, are certainly neither my keeper nor chaperone!"

The self-proclaimed keeper grunts in response and to avoid any more kicks aimed at whatever part of his body is the closest, throws the struggling conjurer onto the mattress. Then, in a succession of events which is not fully clear even to himself (but certainly involves tripping over the solitary shoe Vinculus had on just a second ago), Childermass lands right next to his spluttering 'victim'.

"Believe me when I say that by dragging you out of the eager embrace of future Mrs Vinculus the sixth..."

"Or the fifth, as I have been informed someone else has set my last wife's heart aflutter...!" Vinculus scowls, punching the other man in the stomach, though without much force. “Not that I cannot see the appeal… Or at least the resemblance which led her senses astray. Still, it was by no means fair play on your part. "

"... I have saved your sorry hide from a rough, brief and without doubt excruciatingly painful acquaintance with said woman's rightfully wedded husband."

Vinculus ceases his thrashing, but does not fail to sounds highly offended as he states that it was still highly demeaning of Childermass to choose that particular moment to intervene; to which the culprit replies that he does not wish to be forced to move from York quite so soon and Vinculus should take that into consideration.

"We are not bound by eternal darkness or anything of that sort, as far as I remember."

"As long as the contents of the book remain obscure, you are bound to stay in my custody."

"But you already have it copied down!" Vinculus throws his arms up in frustration. "And if something changes I shall keep you in the know, rest assured, as long as I don't get myself killed which, as I'd like to remind you, mister almighty magician, I have a startlingly good record of avoiding!"

Having thus vented out, the conjurer throws his shirt off to the ground and, turning his back to Childermass, pretends to fall asleep. The man of business sighs and rubs at his still scar-less face.

(Three hundred and forty-nine days.)

He recalls the moment of discovering the dense labyrinthine script all over Vinculus' body, shortly before his mind turned into an incomprehensible blur. He remembers calculating over what he assumed to be a corpse how and where to transcribe the cryptic text. Almost taking a knife to his own skin in an attempt of creating an exact etching... He looks presently at the bare back of his companion, skin almost invisible under the dense writing. Vinculus' father, in a fit of incredible foolishness, destroyed the greatest book of magic of them all, just to give it a second life in a form least expected. How extraordinary, for a poor drunken sod to absorb magic as one absorbs food. Yet, miracle of miracles, here it is again; the scripture of the Raven King, ready to be opened up and devoured.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Vinculus cries out feeling the ghost of a touch, odd but not bothersome in the slightest, replaced by teeth biting down on his shoulder; as he turns around, he is met by an indifferent face and a shrug. He is not fooled in the slightest.

***

He probably drinks a little more these days. He probably is slightly less aware of what the future holds in store for either of them, or the English magic at large. Even if it's true, it doesn't really show. Or at least there is nobody looking closely enough, with all the people in the know turning towards magic or politics (one being, quite understandably, closely entwined with the other). All he knows is, the Raven King's book doesn't yield easily.

He tries to keep them both out of trouble. He tries not to count the days or look for a scar that stubbornly refuses to show.

Some things Vinculus does make him smile. Some make him sigh in irritation. Some make him growl and respond in kind. None make him quite fed up with the man himself.

(It is four hundred and twenty days, give or take a day, when the sky on the horizon darkens, as if all the stars were swept aside by an invisible hand.

And Childermass runs.)


End file.
